


Music In The Air

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Watson put Holmes to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music In The Air

Holmes was lying on his back, examining the way that the afternoon sunlight shone through his eyelids and admiring the intricacies of the blood vessels that laced through them, when he heard Watson arrive home. He counted his footsteps up the stairs, listening to the counterpoint of his cane and vaguely pondering a martial air based on the beat, then opened his eyes as Watson came in through the living room door.

Watson was already taking his hat off before he noticed Holmes lying supine on the rug and tapping out the brass section's counterpoint on his thigh. His movement stuttered and Holmes watched the look of hurt and worry cross his face before his arm completed its path and set his hat on the table.

“You're not wearing socks,” Watson observed and Holmes glanced down at his bare feet, pale and twitching slightly to the music in his head.

“They were disturbing my train of thought,” he remembered. “The colours were all wrong.”

Watson still looked as handsome as he had this morning, wearing a jacket that Holmes was forced to steal from him whenever he had a difficult case because every time he wore it, he destroyed Holmes's ability to process complex thoughts beyond the width of his shoulders and the tone of his skin against the brown material. The sunlight was glinting off his hair, making it appear even fairer than it was in reality, and the exertion of his errands had lent a healthy glow to his cheeks that Holmes desperately wanted to reach out and touch.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to dine out tonight,” said Watson, setting his cane to one side, “but I can see you're otherwise engaged.” He crouched down beside Holmes's head, and Holmes had to crick his neck in order to keep his face in view.

“Food is of no interest to me at the present,” he replied distractedly. Watson was even more bedazzling close to and he couldn't stop himself reaching a hand out to touch him, although he arrested the motion when he saw how his fingers were trembling. Perhaps the dose had been slightly too high this time, but it was worth it, if only to see the concern badly hidden on Watson's face, a reminder of his importance in Watson's life to set against the knowledge that he would never occupy the position he so desperately yearned for.

Watson took his wrist, his skilful doctor's fingers searching out the thrum of Holmes's pulse. Holmes wondered if he could hear that it was beating to the rhythm of Watson's name. _Wat-son, Wat-son, Wat-son..._

“I'm perfectly fine, my dear Watson,” he said, the endearment slipping out without his permission.

Watson sighed and gently put Holmes's hand back on his breast. “Funny how I'm always your dear Watson when you're like this, and an insufferable nuisance when you're sober.” He shifted his weight and slid an arm underneath Holmes's shoulders. “Time to get up off the floor and go to bed like a decent person.”

“I'm not a decent person,” Holmes pointed out, leaning into Watson's hold and standing up with his aid, pretending to himself that the arm around him was an affectionate embrace and not merely support for a man too drug-addled to stand on his own.

“There is really no need to remind me of that,” said Watson. He helped Holmes to his bed with steady steps, settled him in the bed and then sat down on the edge of it with a sigh. Holmes looked up at him, noting how the darker light in his bedroom made shadows form on his face, highlighting its perfect shape. He wondered if there was a way to describe it using his violin, soaring notes to describe the curve of his brow, a series of steady chords marking out the strong line of his chin.

“One day I'll come home and find you lying dead on that rug,” said Watson softly.

Holmes shook his head. “I know what I'm doing,” he said. _I wouldn't do that to you._ His vices were his own business after all, and he took care that they impacted on Watson as little as possible. Watson rested a hand on Holmes's shoulder, the warm weight of it driving all other thoughts from his mind. He shut his eyes to feel it better, to measure it out in his mind, and they sat there in silence for a while, until Watson had clearly decided he was asleep.

He squeezed Holmes's shoulder then pulled away, standing up. Holmes let his breathing stay as calm as it could be under the influence of the drug, trying not to think about how Watson was no doubt watching him right now.

“Sleep well,” said Watson in a gentle voice, then quietly left the room. Holmes cracked his eyes open to watch him go, feeling the warmth of Watson's care suffuse through him. It was entirely worth the disapproval the next day, especially as it was the closest that Holmes knew he'd ever be able to get to him.

****

His eyes were open but he wasn't sure he was really seeing their ceiling. Surely he'd have noticed before now that the cracks in it marked out a perfect visual representation of one of his favourite sections of Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor? He let his eyes wander along the lines, humming absently along with the violin part.

Watson's step in the front hall was hurried and Holmes heard him say something to Mrs Hudson before he came up the stairs. He turned his eyes to the door automatically and was rewarded by the sight of Watson's slightly harried face as he came in. He stopped in the doorway when he saw Holmes, his gaze taking in the syringe on the side table. The look that crossed his face was piqued rather than concerned and Holmes wondered when he had become inured to the sight.

“Holmes, must you always do this at the worst time?” he asked.

Holmes felt an eyebrow raise. “If you consider any time a good time for this, you've yet to let me know,” he pointed out.

Watson ran a hand over his face and glanced at the door that led up to his room. Holmes was shocked for a moment at the thought that he might just walk past him, leave him on the rug like yesterday's paper that he didn't have time to clear up. Instead, to Holmes's relief, he came to stand over him.

“I'm dining with Mary tonight,” he said. “I've only half an hour before I'm due to call on her – I was going to have to rush through dressing as it was.”

Holmes smiled up at him, noting how tall he looked from this angle, how far up his legs seem to go. “I'm perfectly fine here, old fellow,” he said. “The ceiling is an admirer of Edvard Grieg.”

“I don't have any idea how to react to that statement,” Watson informed him. He held out a hand. “Can you get up, or do I need to sling you over my shoulder?”

Holmes took his hand and sat up carefully, the room fading in and out several times as he did so while Watson remained as sharply in focus as ever. “I don't believe anything that undignified will be necessary,” he said.

“Holmes, this whole addiction is undignified,” grumbled Watson. Holmes chose to ignore that in favour of relaxing sideways against his legs, feeling the rough wool of his trousers against his cheek. Watson made an irritated noise and bent down, pulling Holmes up by his shoulders.

“Concentrate very hard on being sober,” he said. “Just for the next five minutes until you're in bed, then you can let your mind wander off along whatever bizarre pathways it wants to head down.”

Holmes nodded, then stopped when it made his head feel as if it were filled with lead and liable to fall off. “To bed, and then to bizarre pathways,” he agreed. An image of which precise pathways he might be able to explore in bed with Watson came into his mind and he allowed himself to indulge in it for a moment before reminding himself that he'd be, as he always was, alone in his bed.

Watson took his arm to keep him steady on the journey to his bedroom, guiding him around furniture and piles of books with the expertise of one who had performed this task many times before. He let go when Holmes sat down on the bed, leaving him to settle down on his own, and Holmes missed his gentle strength of his touch.

“I wonder what you'll do when I move out,” said Watson. “Lie on the floor until the dawn, I suppose.”

It wasn't so much the words, although the reminder that their domestic situation was coming to end caused a cold hand to clench around Holmes's heart; it was the tone, as if Watson had exerted all the energy he had on Holmes and now all he had left was a profound weariness. Try as he might, Holmes couldn't detect any hint of affection in it.

Watson glanced at the clock and cursed. “I must get going,” he said. “Do try not to do anything foolish while I'm gone.” He left without looking back.

Holmes felt a black mood beginning to seep into his mind, drowning out his thoughts. He wondered how he'd managed to lose Watson so thoroughly when he'd spent so much time hiding his inappropriate feelings from him for fear of exactly this happening. Perhaps their situation had been doomed from the start – how long could a man like Watson be expected to put up with someone like Holmes?

Watson's feet came down from his room and crossed the sitting room in haste, pausing for the briefest of moments to get his hat and coat before he left; off to dinner with Mary, who Holmes had never been equipped to compete with. He let his eyes fall shut, his mind focussing on the syringe that still lay on the table in the sitting room, but what was the point if Watson wasn't going to look after him?

****

The sofa was much more comfortable than the floor had been and Holmes wondered for a moment why he hadn't used to take advantage of it when he was indulging in his drug. It only took a moment for his brain to remind him that, before, he'd deliberately been trying to provoke Watson into looking after him, and that lying on the floor was a vital component in that. A man on a sofa didn't need to be helped to bed as urgently as a man on the floor.

The view of the ceiling was different from this angle, but Holmes could still make out the lines that marked out Grieg's concerto. He crooked his neck to the left to see them properly, letting his eyes remind him of their exact alignment. He missed them while he'd been away, like he'd missed so many things. He had once, while inebriated in Spain, tried to draw them on the ceiling of the dilapidated boarding house he'd been staying in, but he'd been unable to remember them exactly and had ended up throwing his pen against the wall in frustration, leaving a vivid splash of ink on the plaster and earning the enmity of the landlord.

Watson's familiar step started up the stairs, and Holmes could hear that he was whistling 'The Nutcracker' to himself, off-key. He smiled when he came in through the door, a brief, private smile that Holmes thought he wasn't meant to notice pass over his face whenever he first saw Holmes. It spoke of how relieved he was to have Holmes back and, by extension, how hard he'd found the last three years. It always made the worm of guilt in Holmes's heart burrow in a little bit deeper.

“Good afternoon, Holmes,” he said jovially, clearly not noticing the syringe that Holmes had left lying on the floor. _Should have moved it,_ he thought. If he started to try Watson's patience with his behaviour like he had before Mary came along, it was entirely possible that Watson would remember why he had left then, and do so again.

“It's a lovely day outside,” said Watson, still oblivious. “I do believe that spring is finally here.” Holmes stopped listening – if he wanted a weather report, he merely needed to glance out a window – but his eyes didn't leave Watson's face. He was animated and exuberant, hands tracing paths in the air that Holmes could almost see leaving glittering trails behind them.

“...what do you think?” finished Watson and looked at him expectantly. Ah, perhaps he should have been paying attention.

“It is excellent weather for May,” he allowed, hoping it would answer whatever Watson had been asking. 

Watson frowned slightly. Not the right response, then. “Holmes, are you feeling well?” he asked, taking in Holmes's sprawl on the sofa as if just seeing it, and then his eyes clearly fell on the needle. “Ah,” he said quietly, and Holmes was sad to see the light in his eyes dim. He didn't say anything else, setting aside his hat and cane and then settling into his armchair heavily.

“I had wondered if you'd have abandoned this habit while away,” said Watson, steepling his fingers and regarding Holmes steadily.

“I didn't have as much time for it,” said Holmes truthfully. “With my life constantly in danger, there wasn't the luxury of letting my guard down.” Watson shut his eyes wearily, and Holmes wondered if he'd already lost him after only a few weeks of living together again. The thought made him feel as if he was falling, taking that plunge off the falls that he'd avoided three years ago. He shut his eyes against the vertigo, then had to open them again quickly to shut out the rushing of fast water in his ears.

“Perhaps I should threaten your life then,” mused Watson. “Set up the occasional ambush to keep you vigilant.”

“I rather think you would lack some of the expertise in the area that Moriaty's men had,” said Holmes. “And I can't believe you would ever intentionally injure me, so the danger would be negligible at best.”

“No,” said Watson sadly. “I would never hurt you, but you are perfectly content to hurt yourself.”

Holmes suppressed a sigh and looked back at the ceiling, humming the section of 'The Nutcracker' that Watson had been mangling earlier. They stayed like that for a long while, until Holmes had lost track of time again, thoughts and memories flashing through his mind faster than the flicker of lightning in a storm.

“Do I have any leverage to bargain with you over this?” asked Watson eventually.

“Nothing you'd consider,” said Holmes. He felt like sleeping, but his legs felt very strange, as if a stream of bubbles was passing through them, and he wasn't sure he could make it to his bed. Well, the sofa was better than many of the places he'd slept while he'd been travelling.

“There's something you think I wouldn't consider?” asked Watson, and Holmes realised, too late, his mistake.

“There's nothing,” he said firmly. “This is a non-negotiable part of my life. Now, if you'd be so good as to keep quiet, I believe I shall take a nap.” He shut his eyes resolutely.

Watson sighed. “At least go to your bed first,” he said. “Come on, I'll help you.” Holmes opened his eyes for that and watched him stand up, moving to stand by the sofa. “How much help do you need?” he asked.

Holmes thought for a moment, diagnosing the condition of his body. “A strong arm should suffice.”

Watson managed the shadow of a smirk. “I can carry you,” he said. “You're very thin – I can't imagine you weigh much.”

Holmes scowled at him and struggled to sit up. “An arm is all I shall require,” he repeated firmly.

Watson gave him more than that – both arms steadied him as he staggered across the room and Holmes reflected that he might be able to walk in a straighter line if most of his attention wasn't diverted by the scent of Watson's skin and the comfort of feeling his body so close.

In his bedroom, Watson set him down carefully on to the bed, then sat beside him. “I suppose you'll refuse to take any water,” he said.

Holmes nodded. “All I need is rest, dear boy,” he said. His arm moved to pat at Watson, hitting him gently on the chest and arm before settling on his leg. Holmes wondered how it had gained the initiative to do that on its own accord – he certainly hadn't instructed it to move.

Watson snorted. “I'm a little too old for 'boy' now,” he said. His hand found its way to Holmes's and held it for a moment before lifting it back to his chest. Holmes found he couldn't let it go when Watson tried to withdraw it and, rather than struggle, Watson left it in his possession. “Go to sleep, Holmes,” he said wearily.

Holmes let his eyes fall shut against the spinning of the room, already calculating just how long he'd be able to keep Watson's hand in his own. It was longer than he'd expected, Watson seemingly content to sit by his side while he pretended to sleep. The drug was still surging through him, making his limbs twitch, but beyond that he endeavoured to keep as still as possible in order to maintain the illusion.

“Whatever will I do with you?” asked Watson eventually, clearly talking to himself. He sighed loudly enough for Holmes to hear it, then gently extricated his hand. There was another pause, and Holmes waited for his weight to shift off the bed and his footsteps to retreat to the door. Instead, there came a sensation that for a long moment he thought must be a product of his drug-laden mind; the touch of soft lips against his forehead, accompanied by the brush of a moustache.

His breath halted for a long moment and he felt Watson begin to move away. _Maybe it's not so impossible,_ he thought dizzyingly and grabbed for Watson's sleeve, instinctively needing to keep him close.

“Holmes,” hissed Watson, and Holmes kept his eyes shut and his breathing as steady as he could make it. The drug was affecting his thoughts, coating them in treacle, and this was not the time for an in-depth discussion, but neither could he just let Watson go after that gesture.

Watson sighed and muttered, “The situations you get me into...” darkly under his breath. His weight moved then, but not off the bed. Instead, he settled down next to Holmes, the arm Holmes was still holding shifting to lie over his chest as naturally as if it had been designed to rest exactly so.

Holmes felt himself relax more completely than he could ever remember, Watson's presence calming his mind in a way that neither the drugs nor the meditations he'd learnt in Tibet ever had. The warmth of Watson's body pressed against his and the soft sound of his breath were the clearest signs he'd ever had of Watson's affection for him, and he imprinted the feel of them into his memory so that he'd never forget them, before finally letting himself slip down into sleep.


End file.
